Sentinel
by chrissie0707
Summary: Sam's so damn happy to see Dean, he doesn't immediately recognize everything that's different about the man. Things that should have been as obvious as the weight, like the wounded, haunted look in his eyes, or the guilt in his voice when he says "Cas didn't make it." Or the hollowness in the humor he tries to wrap around "time flies when you're running for your life." 8X01-8X03.


_Author Note #1: This story took FOREVER, and is not entirely what it started out as. Nova requested (like over a year ago, seriously) a fic in which Sam notices Dean isn't sleeping well after coming back from Purgatory. It veered a few different ways in drafts before settling here. Which is SORT OF what she wanted, but also sort of not._

 _Author Note #2: We're all friends here, right? Will I upset anyone if I say that the season 8 premiere is a MESS. Like, seriously. Have you ever tried to nail down the timeline in that ep? The distances driven between scenes? That strange, mid-scene gap of HOURS that takes place when Sam and Dean stop at that motel? It gave me a headache, and reminded me how this very episode was the catalyst of my mid-series drift away from SPN when it first aired. But I came back, obviously, after missing like five or six eps._

 _Author Note #3: Hand to God, for SEVEN YEARS I have operated under the idea that Dean had somehow managed to get ahold of Sam, and that's why Sam went to Rufus' cabin at the start of the ep. I hadn't ever entertained the idea that he had NO CLUE Dean was going to be there. And I refuse to believe I was the only one. So, yeah, that's another serious bobble of the ep._

 _Anyway, enough of my rambling. Here's a story! Please enjoy it! Please thank Nova42 for the prompt, and for allowing me to take the story is a slightly different direction, and for the nitpicking in editing that helped me put the final touches on!_

* * *

 **Sentinel**

 _Whitefish, Montana_

Seeing Dean here, seeing him _alive_ , is a shock to the system, almost enough to knock Sam on his ass before his brother has the chance.

In the moment, when he hasn't seen his brother in a damn _year,_ when he thought the man was _dead_ , he doesn't really get why Dean is such a stickler for the routine – the holy water, Borax, and silver knife. It'll take a few minutes to settle in, that he expected Sam to be different. To be _wrong_. Because that's the only way he could rectify being lost to that place for as long as he'd been. The only way he could make sense of the fact his brother hadn't gotten him out.

Sam's too stunned to catch all of it as it's happening, too overcome with relief. The very sight of his brother starts to chip away at the wall of ice he'd built around his heart when he walked out of that house in Texas and left Amelia. Those necessary emotional defenses he'd worked to fortify during a long, lonely drive north. He'd found himself in a place where he was doing more harm than good, where he couldn't stay any longer because he was doing nothing but being selfish. He'd come to Rufus' because he had nowhere else to go, and it seemed as good a place as any to figure out what to do next. He never expected to open the door and see his brother.

His _dead_ brother.

His not-so-dead brother.

He hugs Dean tightly and desperately, taking note of the obvious weight his brother has lost, the tension in his muscles, the unfamiliar sight of a knife strapped to his hip. _Purgatory_ isn't an easy thing to hear, an experience for which Sam has no frame of reference, and nothing to offer his brother in the way of empathy or understanding. So he skips that part, goes straight to work cramming his brother into the Amelia-shaped hole in his heart. The one that had only formed because he'd found and crammed _her_ into that gaping Dean-shaped hole in the first place, molding and shaping them in turn to fill what he's lost.

He's so damn happy to see Dean, he doesn't immediately recognize everything that's different about the man. Things that should have been as obvious as the weight, like the wounded, haunted look in his eyes, or the guilt in his voice when he says "Cas didn't make it." Or the hollowness in the humor he tries to wrap around "time flies when you're running for your life." Or how, even with Sam here with him, that rigid, alert tension remains in his posture and his fingers twitch more than once toward the hilt of that knife.

With just a few words, the tone in the chilly, stale-smelling cabin shifts dramatically, from joyous, unexpected reunion to awkward, weighted silence.

 _Did you look for me, Sam?_

He has nothing to say for himself. At least, nothing that Dean will want to hear, or even be willing to hear.

 _I'm still the same guy, Dean._

 _Well, bully for you. I'm not._

He should have tried harder. His brother is different after that, smile fading, posture stiffening and growing guarded. Dean's keeping a deliberate distance across the room, silent and brooding. But that's not quite cause for alarm, isn't so dissimilar from the downtrodden man Sam remembers from a year ago. The man who'd not quite recovered from the hit they took when they lost Bobby. Who'd maybe given up hope by then, and not wanted to recover.

When he manages to meet Dean's dark eyes, his brother's gaze is swimming with unspoken accusations. He seems pissed, betrayed, and exhausted, in that order. Sam gets it. Sort of. He thought, assumed, believed Dean was _dead_. And then he did what he was supposed to. He grieved. He wallowed. He drank too much of his dead brother's favorite whiskey and cried until he could hardly draw a breath. He broke two fingers when he put his fist through a motel room wall, and then he'd hit the road, with no clear path and no intention other than to turn his back on the life that had cost him everything. Everyone.

 _Nothing says family quite like the whole family being dead._

But his walking away wasn't about not hunting, not really. It was about not having Dean. About losing him like that, with no warning, no countdown. No chance. Nothing mattered after that, nothing made sense. Not until Amelia.

He's not allowed to mention their names, but Sam remembers Lisa and Ben. He remembers when his brother – lost, distraught, and alone – did exactly the thing that now has him sulking and side-eyeing Sam from across the room. If he'd known Dean was alive and spending every waking moment fighting for his life in "God's armpit," he would have done something about it. _Of course_ he would have.

But he didn't. There's nothing to be done about that now, and Dean doesn't want to hear it.

Sam gets some food going, because his brother really is too skinny, and because he doesn't know what else to do. He's restless and fidgety, needs to do something with his hands, and he feels…off. His reactions are wrong, his emotions thrown completely out of whack. The indescribable relief of having Dean back, the painful ache of leaving Amelia, and a fresh pang of guilt from knowing – from _remembering_ – that he'd all but abandoned not only his brother in Purgatory, but Kevin to Crowley's clutches. He can't yet sort through any of it properly, and he'd rather be stone-faced than a wreck.

He'd lost his brother, grieved his death for the second time in four years. His world had been irrevocably rocked. He had _nothing_. Even the Impala, the first thing to catch his eye as he staggered numbly out of the Sucrocorp headquarters, was a scratched, crushed wreckage. If he couldn't have Dean back – if Dean was really _gone_ – then Sam didn't want anything. Certainly not the life that had taken everyone from him. He'd wanted out, and away, and hadn't had much room to spare a thought for Kevin Tran. And he'll pay for that, one way or another.

Dean thinks he's being selfish, that he's being cold. But Sam sees no other alternative. If he gives in now to any of the emotions cycling inside, he'll be taken down entirely. And he might not be able to get back up.

* * *

Sam wakes to darkness, to a chill seeping through the holes in the ancient quilt covering him. A tangy scent of half-eaten stew still lingers in the air. He instinctively shifts his right arm, searching for Amelia, but the bed is empty, narrow, and unfamiliar. It takes a moment to orient himself to his surroundings, for his eyes to adjust enough to recognize Rufus' cabin. Another couple of blinks and he notices the shadow standing in front of the dirt-streaked window, his brother's shape silhouetted by moonlight. He has no idea what time it is, but it feels late. The fire has burned out, long enough ago that even the embers have stopped glowing and the heat has left the cabin.

He carefully pushes up in bed, eliciting a protesting groan from the old metal frame. He winces, then gives up on stealth and offers a sleepy "Dean?"

In the muted moonlight shining through the parted curtains, Dean's shoulders visibly tense at the sound of Sam's voice.

He pulls himself up more in bed, squints through the darkness. "Can't sleep?"

Dean shrugs, lifts a hand and rests the edge of his fist against the glass. "Nah," he rasps in a low voice, doesn't turn.

Sam's a little sleep-sloppy, but he keeps himself from asking the stupid follow-up questions that spring to mind, like _what's wrong?_ or _you okay?_ The man just walked out of _Purgatory_. And Sam might not know exactly what that means, but it probably doesn't mean _okay_. He knows he needs to allow for that, for this to be a slow, uphill climb back into whatever _normal_ might mean, but he also very much _needs_ his brother to beokay. Anything else might just be the proverbial last straw.

He clears his throat, scrubs at his eyes to clear them, too. "You want to talk about it?"

It's too fresh, he knows. The _did you look for me, Sam?_ Dean has been here for a couple of days, at least. The bed clearly hadn't been slept in until Sam pulled back the quilt a couple of hours ago, but there's beer in the fridge, and weapons laid out, everywhere. Unfamiliar knives his brother must have unearthed from Rufus' stash, and an old shotgun propped next to the front door. No doubt he'd spent that time trying desperately to find Sam, all the while anticipating the worst.

Dean doesn't respond, and Sam's eyelids grow heavier as his brother's stubborn silence stretches on, until he falls back asleep waiting on him.

In the morning, things between them aren't fine, but they're better. Having his brother back seems to put a patch on Dean's wounds, just as having Dean here patches Sam's.

Being behind the wheel of the Impala works wonders for Dean's mood, but it's obvious he didn't get any sleep. There are pronounced shadows under his eyes, and he's too tense, too on edge, and Sam can't stop conjuring nightmarish thoughts of Purgatory.

* * *

 _Cass County, North Dakota_

Dean's obviously out of sync, not just with Sam but with the world. _This_ world. He squints from the sunlight, startles at noises Sam doesn't even notice, and his gaze lingers on simple, innocuous objects like he's confused by them. Streetlights, door knobs, the vending machines outside the motel room they grab just before sunset. Some of his flinches and pauses seems familiar, tug at Sam and remind him how skittish and guarded his brother had been after Hell.

Dean had been reluctant to pull off the interstate, just short of the state line, but considering the little sleep Sam got the night before and the _no_ sleep Dean got, neither is in much position to keep driving. Dean's also clearly uncomfortable in the small room, face pale and eyes darting rapidly at every set of shuffling footsteps, at cars honking, the blare of a train's horn in the distance.

He wants to get back on the road. _Back on the run_ , Sam thinks. He's a bit out of sync, too. He _knows_ how his brother reacts to having his vulnerabilities poked at, and he still asks, "when's the last time you slept?"

Dean deflects, predictably. Turns the conversation on Sam and taps that well of _pissed_ and _betrayed._ "Is that how you rationalized taking a year off? People will be okay?"

"People _were_ okay, Dean. You're okay." He doesn't mean to be dismissive, just wants an opening for his brother to tell him how off-base he is, to offer some explanation for why his eyes are manic-wide, why there are obvious scars at his left temple, yellowing bruises on his jaw and right arm. It's only been a few days, and Sam doesn't honestly expect Dean to be okay. But, _God_ , he needs him to be.

Dean refuses it, blinks. "Wow."

The response hits Sam the wrong way. He can't explain it, and he can't excuse it. It's just a knee-jerk reaction to his – admittedly half-assed – olive branch being batted away. "Look, I did what we promised we'd do." _What_ you _did._ "I moved on. I lived my life."

Dean's a dog with a bone, won't let up, and he hits a nerve with "was there a girl?"

Sam knew he was going to have to answer these questions eventually, recount the tale of meeting the woman who would help him feel like a whole person again in the wake of losing his brother. But it won't matter to Dean the way it mattered – matters – to him. He needs to cool off before they get into the details; they both do.

He sighs and glances down at his watch, scrubs a hand over his eyes. "There was a diner across the street."

Dean looks down at his hands. "Okay."

Sam shifts his weight, after a beat asks, "you wanna come with me?"

"Nah."

"Want me to bring you back something?"

"I'm good."

That's two nights in a row he's turned down dinner. As far as Sam knows, his brother is running on coffee, Red Bull, and sputtering, Purgatory-tainted fumes. Dean's being distant, and difficult, and Sam knows he shouldn't be surprised, but he still can't help feeling irritated at how goddamn _hard_ his brother is making this, on them both.

He grabs his jacket and leaves the room without another word, but maybe an aggravated huff. He thinks about takeout but finds himself dreading the conversation that's waiting for him back at the motel. So Sam gets a booth in the back, and asks for a moment to look over the menu. He takes ten, then takes his time eating, nurses three cups of coffee and bums a pen off the waitress, completes the crossword in the back of the paper he grabbed from the rack by the door. He spends the entire time knowing he's making it worse the longer he stays gone and fighting with himself over whether he should call Amelia, though he doesn't have a clue what he would say.

He hated himself for walking out that door, a declarative action that he's never needed much of a push to make. Finding Dean in Whitefish felt like fate, and is supposed to have validated his decision, not just for Amelia's sake, but for his own. Falling back into the swing of things with his brother at his side is supposed to take the sting out of leaving. But Dean's keeping him at arm's length, hurt and wary and reluctant to allow him back in.

On the other hand, it's only been two days, and if his brother is making it _this_ hard, there's a reason. If Dean's barely eating and sleeping right, there's a reason.

Sam's frustration fades as the night goes on, and a sense of clarity falls over him, drops a hefty weight on his shoulders. He was wrong, before. Lisa and Ben, it _wasn't_ the same thing. Sam _was_ dead. And even when he was back, _he_ wa _s_ the one who decided to leave his brother in the dark and outside the life. Convinced Bobby it was the right thing to do, too. He hadn't been entirely himself, of course, but that's what happened.

And Dean…

 _I showed up on their doorstep half out of my head with grief. God knows why they even let me in. I drank too much. I had nightmares. I looked everywhere. I collected hundreds of books, trying to find anything to bust you out._

Dean never gave up on him.

Sam just…drove.

His brother deserved better from him.

He'd felt it, when Dean came back. Hadn't realized at the time what it was, the gnawing in his chest that told Sam that he wasn't where he was supposed to be, with Amelia, no matter how badly he wanted things to be otherwise. That feeling, it was the same internal compass that pointed him toward Whitefish when he could have gone anywhere. Pointed him toward Dean.

It's near eleven when Sam finally returns to the motel. The room is dark, appears empty at first. But from his seat on the floor at the foot of the bed, Dean startles violently as the door opens, fingers visibly curling around the hilt of the knife at his hip.

"Whoa!" Sam releases the knob and raises his hands. "It's just me."

"Jesus, Sam." Dean slumps back against the bedframe, drags a hand down his face.

"Sorry." He stands on the threshold of the room, allowing the muted, yellowish light of the hallway fixtures to spill over the gray carpet, the toe of his brother's boot. "What are you doing on the floor?"

Dean hitches a shoulder, drapes an arm over his tented knee. "Couldn't stand sitting on the bed."

Sam frowns, unable to make sense of the answer. "Okay." He wants to question the dark room, then remembers the way Dean's been squinting, even muted sunlight bothering his sensitive eyes, and leaves it alone. "You okay?"

"Mm hmm." Dean nods tightly and averts his gaze, directs it at something on the other side of the room.

He doesn't make a move to rise from the floor, and Sam doesn't make a move to turn on the light. He figures it might be easier this way, for both of them. He wants more information from his brother, but it won't come cheap. He's going to have to give some to get some.

Sam sits on the edge of the other bed, stares down at his hands. "Listen, I know this is gonna sound crazy to you. I don't even necessarily need you to understand. But…you need to know. I didn't just drop out, Dean. I found something. Something I've…never had, all my life." His heart trips over the admission, and he sees Jessica's sweet, smiling face. They'd been so young, so naïve. Even after more than two decades growing up in the life, he hadn't even _begun_ to learn how hard things could be, the trials that lie ahead. Theirs was first love, kids' love, quick and easy. He can't readily put a label on what he had with Amelia, but it wasn't quick or easy, and they aren't kids. Talking about her as something he lost, something he _had_ , hurts in a completely different way. So he gives Dean the CliffsNotes version only, because he isn't ready for more than that. Not yet.

After that, it's "what about you?" and "try me."

And he was right. Because he gave a little, he gets a little in return.

 _It was bloody. Messy. Thirty-one flavors of bottom-dwelling nasties._

The guilt grows in Sam's gut, gnawing at him as his brother recounts what can only be a _fraction_ of the hell he's been through. He should apologize, but he doesn't. His pride stops him, his heartache, his frustration.

Dean seems lighter after, but Purgatory left lasting marks, damage that isn't visible unless you know where to look.

It's past midnight when they finish talking, and Sam's emotionally wrung-out, falls asleep almost the second his head hits the pillow. He honestly couldn't say whether his brother even makes it off the floor and into his bed.

* * *

 _Fairfield, Iowa_

The kid's been through it, on the run for months, worried about his mother but keeping his distance for the sake of her safety, living alone in a dark, dank, rotted-out church. No, not living. Surviving. Like Dean had.

It's a wake-up call for Sam, who'd settled somewhat comfortably into life after and without hunting, or Dean. Without a thought spared for the consequences of his emotional abandonment of them both. His brother trapped in Purgatory and Kevin forgotten, stuck in a less literal but no less dangerous state of limbo. Both, however indirectly, because of him. His lack of action. Sam's spent a lot of his life feeling like he's on the owed end of apologies. Now, he owes more than a few himself.

To Amelia, for derailing her life. They'd bonded, found something there in the wreckage of their loss and grief. Except Dean wasn't dead. And Don hadn't been killed in Afghanistan. And the whole thing was for naught.

To Kevin, for forgetting him. For forgetting his job, and duty, and that there was more going on in the world than what was happening to _him_ in any given moment.

And to Dean. _God_ , to Dean.

The possibility of closing the gates of Hell puts a twinkle in everyone's eyes but paints a target the size of this church on Kevin's back. He's hesitant, skittish, and Sam belatedly jumps to the prophet's defense, turns his frustrations with himself outward. He snaps at his brother, maybe trying to pick a fight, maybe thinking it'll be worth it to push Dean just a little further, get just a little more information from him.

"So, free will, that's only for you?"

It's not the time, or the place, and it's not Sam's finest hour. But it's pretty much par for the course, the way the past few days have gone. He's not surprised when Dean snaps back and stomps away.

After that, Sam has nothing to do but swallow his pride and hand out one of the many apologies he has coming to him. He can't say he's sorry for doing what he did, but he _is_ sorry for whatever part he played in the hell the kid went through in his absence.

"I'm thinking maybe you were one of the pieces that I should have been there to pick up."

He adds another owed apology to the ongoing tally while they're in the damn church, as they lead Crowley right to Kevin. Maybe even get that poor girl killed.

 _Dean, you're looking…well, let's just say Purgatory didn't do you any favors._

Crowley's taunt sticks in Sam's mind, has him shooting his brother appraising side-eyed glances in the car as they hightail it out of there.

The circumstances have left a hard edge in Dean's features, his eyes narrowed and focused on the road ahead. His complexion is hauntingly grayish in the muted, meager glow of passing headlights, and he doesn't speak.

They drive through the night, in tense silence broken only by Kevin's panicked sobs.

* * *

 _Laramie, Wyoming_

Dean's not acting like himself. Not that Sam really knows what that means anymore, but it doesn't even seem like his brother is _here,_ in the room. It's like he's somewhere else, seeing something else when he comes at locker-burgling Clem Smedley like the guy isn't a buck-fifty soaking wet, gets out a damn _knife_.

Sam's a little rusty, sure, but he knows how they're supposed to act when they're flashing badges in a county lock-up. A confident demeanor mixed with bland, aloof professionalism, not throwing a man against the wall with a blade against his throat.

It takes too long to get his brother back, too many frantic calls of Dean's name before he snaps out of it and comes back to himself. Back to Sam, but not really. Not entirely. Too much missing, lost time yawns between them. Untold stories and struggles that are the root cause of every averted glance, snappish retort, and long pause.

Dean's been going nonstop for nearly five days now, thrown right back into the thick of things, of this life, on the heels of breaking out of _Purgatory_. He hasn't done nearly enough to deal with that, and there's a dark, violent look in his eyes that Sam is starting to worry might be hanging around for a while. These are the eyes of a stranger, of someone who's learned the hard way – the _worst_ way – what it takes to survive.

That dark, violent look comes out when Dean has Crowley cornered, demon knife held to the throat of the diminutive vessel of Kevin's mother. If the kid hadn't run in when he did, distracted Dean and given Crowley the opportunity to escape, he would have done it. Would have willingly made that sacrifice, taken the weight of that burden, for the chance to rid them of the demon once and for all.

"No matter what meatsuit he's in, I should have knifed him. I mean, yeah, it would have sucked, and I would have hated myself, but what's one more nightmare, right?"

Sam doesn't say much but wonders if his brother is admitting to something. To nightmares. He can't honestly say that Dean is even sleeping enough to allow for them, but it makes sense. Whatever Purgatory was – _is_ – whatever it meant to Dean, and did to Dean, it's caught in his brother's head, and sticking around for a while.

Dean takes the hit, the blame, with a thick voice and faraway look in his eyes. "He thinks people I don't need anymore – they end up dead."

Sam knows better but is too slow to offer his brother any reassurance. By the time he shifts his shoulders and softly says, "Dean…" the man wants nothing to do with it.

It's another long, sleepless night that lies ahead of them, nightmares or no. Kevin won't answer his phone, which Sam knows he had coming, but Dean thankfully refrains from pointing out.

They spend hours driving through town, scouring every cheap motel and burger joint, but there's no sign of the Trans. They finally get a motel room of their own in Rapid City, but Dean doesn't sleep long, or well. And because of the close quarters, that means neither does Sam.

* * *

The next morning, _pissed_ and _betrayed_ have all but faded entirely from Dean's expression and posture as self-recrimination allows _exhausted_ to take a decisive lead. As the hostility continues to bleed out of his brother's features, Sam's concern over the man's wellbeing begins to grow. Dean looks gray and drawn, and still startles at the honk of a car horn, a door slammed too hard, a child's shrill laugh down the hall. He starts getting twitchy if they're in one place for too long, fingers jumping against his leg, the steering wheel, the narrow counter of their room. But he never says a word.

Dean's always had a wall up, shielding others from knowing his thoughts, from seeing his emotions. Sam is supposed to be the exception. Not anymore. Even the nuggets of honesty his brother has offered so far of what he's been through, of Purgatory, feel like half-truths. He hasn't said much, and what he _has_ said has been vague and not at all helpful.

 _It felt pure._

But Sam can't – won't – fathom his brother remembering Purgatory fondly. Can't make sense of his brother making sense of the violence, in finding some sort of serenity in the constant bloodshed. In fighting for his life.

 _It was bloody. Messy._

 _Hell, most days felt like three hundred-sixty-degree combat._

Graphic, chilling, but not really telling, because it's basically a summary of their upbringing. The entirety of Sam's twenties. Dean's whole _life_ , which has been bloody, brutal, and dangerous. Nothing his brother has said so far has really painted a vivid enough picture as to why he's still looking so haggard nearly a week back in the world, why he can't sleep. Or maybe, why he _won't_ sleep.

It's three days after Kevin takes off on them when Sam finally broaches the subject and asks his brother why he'd been prowling the room at three in the morning like a caged animal.

"Habit," Dean clips shortly.

"Okay," he returns, because he's not sure what else to say to that, with all it implies. Being hunted, having to keep a watchful, waking eye. All while Sam was playing house. Meeting Amelia's father. While he was _living_ , Dean had just been _surviving_. Now…well, what is he supposed to say? He'd had his chance to talk to his brother about this, days ago, when it was still fresh. What happened to him, what _changed_ him. And he blew it.

 _Look at you. You've still got that look. You're shaky. You're on edge._

There'd been concern there, sure, but even Sam can admit his words might have sounded like an attack, an interrogation. Callous, even, and especially to the ears of someone who'd been shaky and on edge. He'd wondered too much too fast, poked at his brother's vulnerabilities with a big 'ol stick, and it shut Dean down.

He knows his brother had been on his own for a few days before Sam arrived at Rufus' cabin, and he can only assume those were some rough days. Long ones, Dean shell-shocked and floundering in this once-familiar world, a stranger now. Alone, and assuming the worst had happened to his brother in his absence.

He can speculate the sorts of mental hell his brother's been through, but any way this plays out, Dean is in desperate need of sleep. Of _rest_. It's some combination of inability and flat-out refusal to allow himself to lay down, close his eyes, and relax that's gotten them here.

Despite all of this, Sam bites his tongue, for the moment, just nods along with his brother's short, dismissive answers and allows the subject to drop.

* * *

Hours later, his eyes snap open to a dark, still room. He feels gauzy and loose-limbed, and his head immediately pounds from a too-brief stretch of sleep. He lifts his face from the pillow, squints at the blurry red numbers of the clockface that confirm it's only been twenty-five minutes since he last checked the time, eyelids growing heavy as Dean's gaze remained stubbornly alert and steady on a football game on the TV. Sam flops to his back with a groan and blinks up at the ceiling. With a start, he realizes what's woken him. The dark. The quiet.

 _Dean._

He leverages himself upright and too easily finds the other bed empty, covers rumpled but tucked away, and obviously not slept in. His legs tangle in blankets he doesn't remember throwing over himself, and he nearly trips on his first step away from the bed. He stumbles across the room to flip on the light in the small, empty bathroom. _Shit_.

Heart racing, he backs out of the bathroom, surveying the room in the square of yellow light that pours through the open door. Dean's bag is still by the door, an unfamiliar hiking pack that's limp and underfilled. Sam had kept what was worth saving of his brother's possessions, weapons and journals he'd boxed up and dropped off at Dad's storage locker, but Dean's been borrowing clothes from his own bags the past few days, tugging at sleeves that are too long and too loose. He hadn't kept anything of Dean's with him, unable to carry around a constant reminder of what he'd lost.

Things haven't exactly been like old times. It's been a tough and tense and uncomfortable few days, delicate even, but he never thought Dean would take off on him in the middle of the night. Not that his brother doesn't owe him one. Or five.

But Dean doesn't give up. Dean doesn't take off and forget. That's Sam's play to make. Dean is steadfast, dependable. But he's been through it, things so bad he can't even bring himself to share them with a little brother who's been so wrapped up in his own shit that he's done a piss-poor job of showing just how ecstatic he is that Dean is alive. That he's _here_.

He doesn't believe it. He can't. Sam crosses purposefully to the door and whips it open. His shoulders slump in relief as he spots the familiar shape of the Impala parked in front of the room, just before he nearly falls over the hunched form of his brother sitting on the stoop.

"Christ, Sam!" Dean exclaims, dodging to the left in time to avoid taking a knee to the face.

"Sorry!" Sam steadies himself on the doorframe, shakes the hair from his eyes as he frowns down at his brother. The fact he's out here might be something of a surprise, but the pint of whiskey on the stoop at his side isn't. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

Dean shifts his shoulders, takes a moment before he speaks, to reconstruct that wall, that barrier that's existed between them since their coincidental reunion. "You fell asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

That much, at least, sounds like _Dean_. Like Sam's perpetually protective big brother, who's always insisted on walking into every firefight first, who's always taken as many hits meant for Sam as he could, who dimmed the lights, turned off the television, and crept outside so he didn't disturb his brother's slumber.

Still, it doesn't detract from the fact there's another reason Dean is out here. "You're still not sleeping," Sam says with a sigh.

Dean rolls his eyes as he lifts the bottle of whiskey to his lips. "I'm sleeping."

 _Hardly_ , he fires back silently, but there's no use arguing semantics with Dean Winchester. An hour a night does not rest make. Sam sighs and shakes his head. He sinks to the curb next to Dean, drapes his arms over his knees and tries to stealthily appraise his brother. The light offered by the parking lot lampposts is dim and intermittent, cheap flickering bulbs, but it's enough to see his brother's coloring is paler than it should be, and there might be sweat beading at his forehead, despite the mild autumn night.

Panic tickles the back of his mind but he forces it away. Dean's not prone to catching a passing cold, but he's also just spent more than a year in Purgatory, an environment Sam might not be familiar with but likely wasn't easy on or kind to his brother's living, human system. There's also the still time unaccounted for, an unknown number of days in the gap before Sam arrived at the cabin in Whitefish. It's a concerning combination, but if Sam knows well enough that if he overcorrects now, if he tries to make up for _did you look for me, Sam?_ with an abundance of concern _now_ , he'll drive Dean further away.

"You should come inside," he says, after a prolonged, awkward silence. He keeps his eyes down and his voice low, does his best to make it sound like a casual suggestion. Not an order, or even a plea.

"Sure," Dean says. He lifts the empty bottle, neck hooked between his fingers. "I'm out of whiskey, anyway."

Sam knows that's not true, knows his brother has more squirreled away in that bag just inside the door. He doesn't even have to see the bottles. That's how Dean deals with pain.

An eerie sense of déjà vu settles over him as he pushes up from the chilly stoop.

 _You think I can't see it?_

 _The nightmares, the drinking. I'm with you 24/7. I know something's going on._

Dean's acting much the same now. Internalizing but not actually _dealing._ And Sam has a sinking feeling that's going to end badly, for both of them.

* * *

They continue to scour the surrounding states for any sign of the Trans but end each day empty-handed.

Sam knows his brother can't keep going like this, pushing through each day by sheer force of willpower while he pushes down everything that's plaguing him and acting like the past year didn't happen. It's not healthy, for either of them. Dean doesn't have to tell Sam everything that happened, but he has to deal with what he faced in Purgatory. The violence that's left him marked, bruised, and scarred. The trauma of being trapped in that place, of losing Cas. If this is the way Sam's life is going to be again, this unforgiving one-eighty back into hunting, then he wants – he _needs_ – his brother by his side. And for that to happen, Dean needs to _stop._ To rest, recover, and _really_ catch up on the sleep he's been missing out on for, Jesus, a damn _year._

Sam lies awake, listening to his brother stir and fidget in the next bed. Listening to Dean suck in a sharp, pained breath as his legs twist and kick frantically in the sheets. He's spent almost his entire life sharing a room with Dean, and he knows pretty well the various sounds of his nightmares. The strangled, choked noises of Hell's tortures, the unintelligible mumbles of distress following an emotional gut punch like losing Dad or Bobby. This is something different. Whatever Dean's dreaming, it's new. Violent.

 _Purgatory_ , Sam knows, dread settling in his gut and chest.

Waking Dean from a nightmare has always been a gamble, and an adventure. They've spent _years_ sleeping in the same three hundred square feet of space, and their life is a difficult, violent one. Insomnia isn't rare, and nightmares are a given. Rough nights of broken sleep usually pass without comment or intervention, but there have always been exceptions. Jessica. Hell. Lucifer. Sam is ready to declare this an exception.

He slips from his own bed and stands next to his thrashing brother, flips on the bedside lamp but the bright bulb next to his head doesn't wake Dean, doesn't even faze him. Sam's hands hover uselessly as he maintains a safe distance out of his brother's reach, a line learned through trial and error, through years of having to knock a gun from Dean's hand or finding the business end of a blade at his own throat.

Dean continues to twitch and twist, wrestling with an unseen enemy. With more than one, Sam thinks watching as sweat beads on his brother's forehead.

Sam finally, cautiously lowers himself to the mattress next to Dean. After a moment's pause, he lays a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Hey, Dean."

Dean comes up immediately, pulling his fisted hand from beneath his pillow with unexpected quickness, but Sam grabs his brother's wrist tightly before he's able to swing his arm completely around.

The dangerous fire in Dean's eyes, like a trapped, feral animal, has him rethinking the move, and he releases his hold immediately, raising his own hands as he leans back. "Whoa, hey. Just me."

Dean wipes the flash of panic from his face a bit too easily for Sam's liking, flops back against his pillow and drags a hand down his face with a groan. "What?" he demands. His voice is muffled by the fingers over his mouth, but the annoyance isn't.

"You were, uh…" He hesitates again, allowing the tension between them to maintain the power. "Looked like you were dreaming pretty hard."

Dean doesn't open his eyes, keeps his fingers splayed over his face. "Sorry. I'll try to keep it down." He's turning snappy and dickish, obviously trying to deflect the concern by being an ass about it, by irritating Sam enough that he stands down.

That might be what Dean wants, what seems _easier_ , but it's not what he needs. It's not what either of them needs. A year's gone by for each of them, and there are stories to tell on both sides. Sam wants his own pain acknowledged, but right now Dean's year is the priority. Dean's stories are the ones that need to be told, that can't go on being held back.

Sam looks down at his hands, opens his mouth to speak. Rethinks the approach, and steels himself as he reaches out and firmly drags his brother's hand away from his face.

Dean frowns and opens his eyes, tries to wrench his arm away but Sam holds firm. He knows he's pushing his luck, knows he might end up decked and sprawling on the carpet with a bloody nose with the way he's got his brother pinned on his back, but he maintains his grip on Dean's arm and looks him in the eyes as he says, "you've been sleeping like shit, Dean."

"I noticed." Dean's lip curls, and his eyes narrow. His fingers flex, making a fist, and Sam feels the tension in his brother's arm increase.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No." The threat is in his tone. The warning.

Sam bobs his head and releases Dean's arm. After a pointed look, he also slides from the edge of his brother's mattress and relocates to his own bed. He looks to the ceiling with a sigh. He likes to talk things out, to clear the air and lighten the weight on his heart or conscience. Dean prefers to bury his pain as deep as he can, as deep as it will go. He can turn resentful, even hostile if someone tries to dig it up and dust it off.

Something now is stopping Sam from digging it up. Something in the ache in his chest, that hole left behind, the memory of the life he'd found and lost. That step taken into selfishness, into doing something for _himself_ , for the first time in _years_.

But in the end, he knows that he has to do what his brother would do, and forget about himself. "You said it was habit. Before."

Dean rolls his eyes so severely it hurts _Sam's_ head, leverages himself into a seated position and glares across the space between their beds. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't tell Sam to shut up, either.

He takes that as some sort of silent permission. Or maybe Dean just can't fight anymore. "I'm, uh, guessing you couldn't stop and sleep in Purgatory."

"Not really, no."

Sam nods, doesn't say anything, doesn't make the same mistakes he did before. Doesn't push. He just…waits.

It takes several long, unbearably quiet moments, then his brother finally blows out a breath. A further signal of surrender. Dean clears his throat, looks around the room, probably for more of that whiskey. He unsurprisingly unearths a fresh pint from somewhere on the floor next to his bed. "No matter how much I ran," he says, only after swallowing a healthy gulp. "How far…they just kept coming."

"What did?"

Dean snorts but doesn't meet Sam's eyes. "You name it. Leviathans, werewolves, vamps. Couple of wraiths, once." He winces, shifts his right leg beneath the covers. "Got a piece of me, too."

Sam knew as much. Or should have, if he'd really stopped and given his brother's experience the consideration it warranted. Still, hearing the admission from his brother is like a punch to the gut.

 _Bloody._

 _Messy._

 _Three hundred-sixty-degree combat._

The scab in the hair over Dean's ear, and the bruises on his arms.

The blade he pulled out in that church, a crude, vicious, handmade weapon of necessity.

He'd heard, but he hadn't _listened_. Dean had given him all the pieces, even if he couldn't bring himself to put the puzzle together. Sam's own heartache isn't comparable, or proportional. Dean's real nightmares happened every day over the past year. These are just bad dreams.

"I'm glad you're okay," he says quietly, lamely. _Glad_ doesn't touch it, and _okay_ is far from the truth. There are months between them, and miles to go before they're okay. Sam has no idea what it will take for _Dean_ to be okay.

"Yeah," Dean returns, with a humorless chuckle. He takes another long pull from the whiskey then sets the bottle aside on the bedside table, reaches for the lamp. "I'm gonna turn this off."

"Sure," Sam says, but Dean is already flipping the switch, plunging the room back into the relative safety of inky darkness.

Sam wears his heartache on his sleeve, but the damage left on his brother isn't visible unless you know where to look. It's painfully obvious there are things Sam still doesn't know, things he might _never_ know. And that's to be expected. He has secrets, too. But no matter what, Dean should know that he doesn't have to stand guard or keep watch anymore. That nothing is chasing him, and he's safe now. Home.

He should know that Sam's here, and he's not going anywhere. He shouldn't have to suffer silently and secretly.

However Dean wants this to go, he won't suffer alone. Sam leans back against the headboard but stays upright, using the cover of darkness in the room to stand guard as well as he can, waiting, listening for more sounds of distress from his brother's bed. Or, hopefully – though he'd never anticipated he would long to hear it – the sound of Dean's snoring. For a long stretch of time, there's only silence.

Finally, Sam hears a sigh from across the room, then a gruff "you still awake?"

"Yeah," he admits.

"Why?"

It should go without saying, but due to the state of things, he says it anyway. "Because you are."

* * *

 _Next up, the Minnesota chapter of Atlas! (No, it hasn't been abandoned. :P )_


End file.
